A Christmas Carol  Voldemort Style
by RainbowRose497
Summary: The classic story originally written by Charles Dickens with a twist: the spirits visit the one and only Dark Lord of the Potter Universe. I tried to stick to the plot of both, but had to make some changes to fit things in. I do not claim right to either.


Tom Riddle, better known as Lord Voldemort, sat on his chair before a fire. His followers were at their homes, with the exception of Wormtail, who was in a separate room of his Muggle father's old home. Nagini slithered silently in the graveyard below for dinner. It was Christmas Eve again. The Dark Lord was miserable on this 'great' holiday. Oh, how he loathed this holiday. For him, there was no waking up in the morning with a bright smile, running to a finely decorated tree and seeing the joy in his parents' eyes as they spent holiday time together. No, in the orphanage, there was only waking to other children's screams as they trampled each other to go downstairs to receive their presents and possibly have the chance to get adopted soon.

Could this retched day not pass any quicker? It was going about as slow as Tom could take it.

Suddenly, he heard a noise: _Clank! Clank! Thump! Clank! Clank! Thump!_

"Tom Riddle," an old, yet feminine voice groaned.

"Who's there?" slithered the old villain.

"Tom Riddle," the groan sounded again.

And then the noise: _Clank! Clank! Shush! Clank! Clank! Shush!_

Voldemort rose from his chair and stared at the door. The foreign emotion of fear came to him. He slowly shrunk back behind his chair, glare sill glued to the door.

"Who dares disturb me?" he demanded.

"Tom Riddle," only that groan came.

"Who are you?"

The opaque figure of the late Merope Gaunt floated through the door.

"You," the ghost's son sneered, "What are you doing here? You left me at the orphanage and you expect me to let you stay in my presence? How dare you? And you fell in love for that filthy Muggle … You disgust me!"

"Tom Riddle, my son, please let me speak."

Voldemort tried to speak, but his mother only raised a hand for his silence. He paused and then allowed it, slightly eager to hear what she dared say to him after she let herself die and left him in that orphanage without a single word or clue of wizarding knowledge or remorse.

"Tom, you are cruel. You have no heart. This Christmas, you must change or your life will become more miserable than ever. I warn you now, young Tom."

"Mother," Tom demanded her to stop. He paused, just then noticing the chains that weighed her down, "What are those?"

"These are the chains I unknowingly formed in my life. By tricking your father into loving me with a potion, I carved each link in my chain. Not even after stopping the potion, would a single chain link go away. I was stuck with them, as you will be unless you stop. You are a murderer and a sad, selfish, horrible person. Change your ways son, or you will be like me, only worse."

Tom pondered what his mother had said; only slightly fazed by her warning.

"Son, you will be visited by three spirits, each worse than the last. The first spirit will come to you at the strike of midnight, the next at one, and the final shall arrive at two. They will find you. Listen to them. Good bye, son, and good luck."

With that said the spirit of Merope Gaunt left.

"Ha," Voldemort snorted, "My mother is deranged. She is as deranged as she was when she fell in love with that filth!"

He turned back to his chair and sat down again, staring at the slowly dying fire. His eyes immediately closed and he lapsed into a deep sleep.

The snake-like villain awoke with a start as a grandfather clock chimed for 1:00 AM. He remembered his mother's warning, but dismissed it, moving in the chair and closing his eyes once more.

"Tom Riddle," a different groan sounded out.

It was different from his mother's ghostly voice. This new one sounded younger and masculine.

"Tom Riddle," it repeated, more sternly this time.

"Who keeps me from my sleep? Who are you?"

"I am the first spirit."

A head popped past Voldemort's chair, "Hello."

"What do you want?" The Dark Lord was not fazed.

The first spirit was in the form of James Potter.

"I am going to be the Ghost of Christmas Past."

"You – You are _James Potter!_ But, I killed you! You and your wife, but then … your son almost killed me!"

"No, Tom …"

"How dare you call me that? I will not go by the name of that filthy Muggle!"

"Listen to me! I am the Ghost of Christmas Past, not James. I took the form of him because he is part of your past. He was where your gradual decrease of good took a sharp plummet. Are you keeping up, Mr. Riddle?"

Voldemort looked skeptical. "Yes," he said slowly.

"Well, let us be off then," the spirit said, crossing the old room to a window and opening it. He turned back to face Voldemort, "Come on, come on. We must hurry."

He put out his hand as if to shake hands with Voldemort. The villain reached out and when his hand just barely touched the spirit's own, his hand was locked in the ghost. The two jumped from the window, but Mr. "Christmas Past" kept them hovering in the air. The sky and land around them merged and Tom felt very dizzy.

Riddle had closed his eyes, but then very suddenly, his feet were cold and wet. His eyes flew open. It was daytime. There was snow on the ground. And worst of all, they were back at the orphanage.

"Do you know why I brought you here, Tom?"

"No, I do not. Why, spirit, have you brought me back to this horrid place? I would much rather be at that Muggle home."

"This is your Christmas past."

"And that is relevant because …?"

The spirit sighed, "Come with me."

He hovered forward and into the orphanage. Voldemort hesitated, but followed, also hovering above the ground.

Inside the orphanage, a small boy with a gloomy presence sat in a corner, looking out a window. Voldemort recognized the child as himself.

"That was me. I was nine."

"Yes."

"Young Tom," Voldemort tried to talk to his younger image.

Tom did not acknowledge the presence of his future self.

"He cannot hear or see you, Mr. Riddle. No one here will notice either of us. We are merely passing through a point in time. Your efforts will have no luck. TOM! Stop that! We must be moving on. Were you paying any attention?"

While the Ghost was speaking, Old Tom Riddle had been trying to speak with the younger Riddle. He sighed, giving up.

A door slammed open and Voldemort spun to see Miss Cole.

"Tom," she said, "Why are you here and not with the other children? They've all gone out to the park."

"I don't like Christmas. Wasn't it just Christmas when my mother died and left me here?" Young Tom asked.

"Yes, Tom, Christmas had just passed," she sat down next to him, "But, you can make happy memories when new Christmases come around."

"No, I'll always remember my mother. And how she left me here and didn't try to save herself to take care of me. I will never forget that."

The Older Tom turned to his spirit guide.

"Take me back, spirit. I don't want to see anymore."

The spirit nodded and put his hand out again. Voldemort took it and closed his eyes so he wouldn't be dizzy the second time. It was like Apparating for the first time on a much bigger and much, much worse scale.

When Voldemort opened his eyes again, he wasn't at home. Instead, he was at Hogwarts. He and the spirit were in Professor Slughorn's office for his annual Christmas party.

Students wandered around, some laughing and talking with friends, others eating the snacks that Slughorn had provided for them. A teenage version of Tom Riddle stood in a corner of the room. He was sixteen at the time.

A young girl was pushed by her friends towards the mysterious young Riddle. She asked him to dance and the boy hesitated but accepted her request. They danced for a few moments before Slughorn announced it was time to return to their dorms.

"Spirit, I do not need to be reminded of that girl. Take me back now."

"Answer me this, Tom: Who was that girl?"

"I … loved … her."

"And what happened?"

"She … betrayed me … and then she … died."

"She died?"

"Yes, I never … felt … again."

"Exactly, Tom, you lost the meaning of love. That is why you are so cold, Tom. Now, come. I will bring you back."

Voldemort took the spirit's hand and returned to the old room.

He sighed.

"Tom, I must leave now, but remember the next spirits …" he faded out.

Voldemort shook his head. No, this was a dream. He sat on the chair and fell again into a deep sleep.

"Tom," a voice whispered. It was a woman's.

Voldemort's eyes shot open.

"Who's there? Tell me now!"

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Present."

"Where are you?"

"I am next to you."

He turned to see the Ghost. Unlike the Ghost of Christmas Past, she took no form of his past murders.

"Why are you not in a different form? The last spirit took the form of Potter's father! But, you do not. Tell me why."

"He was the Ghost of Christmas Past. I am the Ghost of Christmas Present. You are not presently murdering someone."

"What about the third Ghost? What will it look like?"

"You shall see."

She looked like a simple woman. She wore flowing white robes with long sleeves that flew behind her like a wind was constantly blowing at her. Her hair was blonde and flew back in the same fashion. She looked like an angel without wings or a halo, but she was glowing.

"Come on," she said, and put her hand out like the last spirit, "We shall go now."

Voldemort grabbed her hand and the room spun again. When it was finally done, they were at a graveyard.

"Where are we, spirit?"

"Look," she pointed.

There were a man and a woman leaning over a gravestone, weeping. The spirit led Voldemort closer to the couple. He saw that they were Mr. and Mrs. Diggory. The grave, obviously, was over Cedric Diggory, the boy he had ordered Wormtail to kill.

"Amos," Mrs. Diggory spoke, "It's getting late. We should go."

"You can go; I want to stay with my son this Christmas."

"Alright, I'll tell the family you couldn't make it to dinner."

"I swear to it."

"Swear to what, dear?"

"I swear there will be an end to the … thing that killed my boy."

"How can you say that? You-Know-Who could kill you before you even got a word out of your mouth."

"He will meet an end. It will be soon. And if not, I will make it so. I swear to it."

The spirit turned to Voldemort, "You have caused many families to be like this. The ones that are still alive do the same thing as this man: visit dead loved ones and swear that you will die."

"I do not need to see this, spirit. Take me back."

She put out her hand again. Voldemort grabbed it and the world spun once again. When everything stopped spinning, they had appeared in the little room Wormtail stayed in.

"Tom, do you know why I brought you here?"

"No, spirit," he spoke.

"This is Wormtail. He works for you."

"I know that!"

"It is Christmas and he hates it almost as much as you. But, only because he has felt no love, only anger towards him. In his earlier years, he wasn't like this. You made him a traitor. He holds on desperately to what he used to feel for Christmas. He holds on to the people who used to love him."

"Leave now, spirit; I will return to the room myself."

"Very well, Tom. But, be warned, if you do not change, you will not like what you see with the next Ghost. Caution, Tom."

The Ghost dissolved into the air as Voldemort returned once more to his chair. He sighed before leaning back and going back to sleep again. He was not woken until a bitter cold wind blew into the room. His eyes shot open and he listened for his old name. Not hearing it, he looked to the two windows in the room. Both were closed. He searched the room frantically for a sign of a hole in a wall … or perhaps, the third Ghost.

He felt the wind again, and spun around to face the direction it blew from. There, he saw a black cloaked figure.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

The figure did not speak. Coming into the moonlight from the window, Voldemort saw it was a dementor.

It held out an ugly, gnarled hand. Voldemort stared at it. He was not overcome with sadness and fear, like any other wizard or Muggle would have been. The dementor could not penetrate his mind.

The dementor moved closer, its hand still out.

"Wait," Voldemort ordered, "You have not spoken. Who are you and why are you here? I demand answers!"

The dementor pointed to a window. It was covered in frost. Then, as if a child were making a picture from the condensation, some frost started to disappear and form words.

_I am the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. Grab my hand. You must see._

Voldemort read and returned his gaze to the dementor-like Ghost.

"Spirit, why are you in the form of a dementor?"

The gnarled finger pointed again to the window, which had frosted again.

_We must take a form. I must wear a cloak and I shall not look like the Death that the Three Brothers had deceived long ago._

"You cannot speak? The others spoke to me."

Frost again appeared and then disappeared to show the Ghost's answer.

_Dementors cannot speak._

"Obviously," Voldemort sighed.

The Ghost put his hand out again. Voldemort held on to it as the room spun, hopefully for the last time.

When his eyes opened again, they were once again in a graveyard.

"Where are we, spirit? Why have I returned to another graveyard?"

The dementor turned to Voldemort and motioned for him to turn around.

Voldemort did so, and saw a large pile of dirt at the end of the cemetery. The Ghost floated towards it, and Voldemort followed.

The dementor-Ghost pointed at the dirt pile. Voldemort looked at it.

"What is this?"

The Ghost replied by waving its hand, presenting the graveyard.

"It is a grave, then. Who is under it?"

The spirit only looked at Voldemort. After a few moments realization dawned on the villain.

"Spirit, surely _I_ am not the one under that grave!"

The spirit nodded.

"But, spirit, what about the Horcruxes? Who did this?"

Voldemort, however, could not get an answer. The Ghost was slowly dissolving. As was the dirt pile. It opened to show fire. The flames shot out and the ground retreated back, causing Voldemort to fall into the flames.

His eyes shot open. He was sprawled out across the floor in front of the chair and his face was in the ashes of his old fire.

"Spirit, are you still here?"

Nothing answered him. He was alone.

He sighed, "It was only a dream, then. I am safe. I shall not die. My Horcruxes shall not fail me."

Voldemort returned to the chair for the last time that night. And when he awoke again, it was Christmas. He did not call his Death Eaters to join him. The few that came despite that, he let stay with him for dinner.

The dream may have shaken him, but he did not change much. He did not stop his plans. He did not dismiss any Death Eaters. He did not get any joy from Christmas. He died at the Battle of Hogwarts. He was left buried under a pile of dirt. He never got a grave marker. He did not get any visitors.

Although the Ghosts had tried to teach him a lesson, he did not take it to the twisted heart he had. If he had, he would have lived. He would have lived in Azkaban, but he would not have died. And because of his Horcruxes, it was known that just living was really what he wanted.


End file.
